


Sins of the Spirit, Sins of the Flesh

by wolfy_writing



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Depressed Matt Murdock makes terrible decisions, F/M, He wants to continue to make terrible decisions, Matt Murdock doesn't actually want a hug in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 20:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15127097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfy_writing/pseuds/wolfy_writing
Summary: Matt falls into a low patch, and then falls into a woman's bed.Pre-series.Eliza is an interpretation of how Eliza from Daredevil Noir might fit into the MCU.





	1. Chapter 1

Matt woke up, and stifled a groan. It was morning, and he was more tired than when he went to bed. He wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over himself and sleep until the bone-deep fatigue went away.

 _Get up_ , he told himself.

He summoned up his willpower to force himself upright. There was a sticky moment of inertia, when he feared it wouldn’t work, but of course it did. It always did.

(Even that time in law school, when he hadn’t been able to make himself go to class, he’d been able to slink out of bed every day and shower and get dressed. He’d put on shoes every day, and made his bed, hoping it would stop him from crawling back in for a nap. It didn’t work.)

Sit-ups. He _desperately_ didn’t want to. He was so tired, and everything hurt, as if he’d already lost a fight.

_You want to keep going out there? What will you do out there if you slack off on exercise and let yourself get weak? Do your sit-ups._

He got down on the floor and forced himself through his morning set, and then pulled the free weights out from the back of the closet.

‘Out there’ was the only thing that was keeping him going.

_Don’t be melodramatic. If you can do it because you want something, that means you **can** do it. You just don’t want to. _

He forced his way through the morning like that, barking a string of orders at himself, until he was fed, dressed, and ready for work.

(He skipped meditation, with a guilty twinge. He didn’t want to be stuck sitting with his own thoughts right now.)

Forcing himself through, step by step, was the only way to get through this.

And he knew exactly what _this_ was.

—

_“Acedia, Matthew,” said Sister Joan. “Spiritual sloth. It’s found among those who are ungrateful for the blessings that God has bestowed on them. It is the opposite of the spiritual joy felt by those who are zealous in their duties and in their love of God. It makes you lazy, inattentive, apathetic, and numb to the joys of the world. Fortunately, the cure is very simple, although much despised by lazy little boys. Hard work.”_

_Matt had nearly cried. He’d been thirteen, and it already felt like he was working unbearably hard. He’d kept his grades up even when he was tired all of the time and could barely think. He’d gone to school even when it hurt just being around people. He didn’t have anything more in him. He just wanted to sleep until everything stopped hurting so much._

_But he remembered his dad, the way he’d stay in a fight to the end, the way he’d come home bloody and defeated, but get up the next day to train and look for another fight._

_So he went to work polishing candlesticks, Sister Joan’s eyes always upon him. And then he did his homework, spending hours grinding through assignments and double-checking details that threatened to fade into the fog inside his head._

_And after a few months, it ended._

_Sister Joan eased off when she saw he was eager to duck out and climb trees in the park, not crawl into his bed and sleep the afternoon away._

_And he’d learned his lesson. The creeping misery was born of laziness, and could be fought with diligence and attention to duty._

_All he needed to do was buckle down, and work hard, and eventually it would go away._

_Eventually could be a long time, but it would go away._

—

When Matt stepped out the front door, Foggy was outside, finishing the last bite of what, by the smell, was a cream-filled donut with chocolate frosting. “Hey, Matt. How’s it going?”

“Fine,” Matt said.

“Fine?” Foggy turned his head in a gesture that Matt knew was Foggy looking him up and down. “No problems?”

“No, everything’s fine.” He wished he knew what had set Foggy off this time. He shouldn’t have any visible bruises. (That had been awkward. He was either going to need to get a lot better at this, or figure out some kind of protection for his face.)

“You seem kind of quiet.”

“I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.” _Stop asking, **please**_. It was draining having conversations like this. It felt almost physically tiring, having to listen to Foggy, pick out his meaning, and put together something that would satisfy his worries. He could feel the energy it took to listen, and to think of answers.

“No?” Foggy asked. “Something, or some _one_ , keeping you awake all night?”

Matt made himself laugh, hoping it sounded natural. “I just got into this new podcast. It’s called Serial, have you heard of it? It’s an investigation of whether this guy was wrongfully convicted of a murder or not.  I got caught up in it and stayed up too late.”

“ _That’s_ what you do? You spend all day at your job investigating possible wrongful convictions, and then go home and listen to an investigation of wrongful convictions? I go home to pizza, beer, and cheesy monster movies! Seriously dude, less Serial, more Sharknado!”

Matt laughed again, and this time he almost felt it. “They’re not as fun if you can’t see the monsters.”

“Cheesy monster podcasts, then! I’m sure someone makes them! If not, I’ll do it! It’s gotta be easier than being a lawyer. That’s the plan. I’ll start a cheesy monster podcast, and I’ll be rich and famous!”

“I don’t think you get rich and famous from podcasts.”

“That’s because no one’s let _me_ do it yet.”

—

Matt breathed a sigh of relief when he settled in at his desk at work, in spite of everything he had to do. (He was slipping up, he knew. It was hard to get anything done, and if he didn’t get it together, he’d fall behind, and he’d be betraying the trust of his clients, failing his promise to zealously advocate for them.)

Foggy was great, but talking to him like that, making all of the small talk, smiling, laughing, and trying to act normal, it was exhausting.

And it only got worse when Foggy started to worry.

But he had to keep it up. Back at school, after things had ended with Elektra, he _hadn’t_ tried hard enough, he _hadn’t_ made himself keep going and act normal.

(It had all seemed so _pointless_ , and he’d find himself opening the textbook on his laptop only to lose focus and discover the computer had read him the entire chapter and he’d learned nothing. Some mornings he’d get fully-dressed, shoes included, and be hit by an overwhelming sense of exhaustion and futility and gone back to lie down on top of his neatly-made bed. The daytime sleeping had left him wide-awake in the middle of the night, and prone to crawling out the window and pacing the campus at three in the morning, trying to work out his restlessness and the constant irrational sense that he was seeking _something_ , and if he could just find it, whatever _it_ was, everything else would fall into place.)

He’d missed so many classes that he’d barely managed to recover from the damage to his GPA. Foggy had tried to drag him to the counselor at the school health center. Matt had barely talked him out of it.

Foggy didn’t think in terms of sins. Foggy thought in terms of depression, which would mean recommending therapy, and keeping at Matt about it until he went.

Matt had been to therapy once, after the accident.

A woman with a sing-song voice like a kindergarten teacher had spent weeks making Matt jump through emotional hoops. She’d made him drop the brave face he’d been putting on for everyone and admit to being sad and scared and angry that he was blind. And then she’d immediately tried to make him _stop_ feeling that way, giving him “new perspectives” that were supposed to make him happy again. It was like she wanted him to play the part, but she wanted to fool herself into thinking she’d really changed him.

And every week his father was out in the waiting room talking in a quiet, worried voice about the bills, about payment plans, about how much he could manage that week. And then putting on a cheerful voice and going “Hey, Matty! ” like nothing was wrong as soon as Matt left the therapist’s office.

(There hadn’t been therapy after his father died. There’d been Father Tran.

Father Tran was a war refugee who knew about loss and pain and what it was like to try to hold on to faith in God’s love when everyone on earth who you’d ever loved was dead.

He’d been better than therapy.)

Matt didn’t want to go back to having a stranger pick over his feelings and tell him what they should be. And he wasn’t sure how long he could hold out, knowing that he was making Foggy worry about him.

He was going to have to force himself to go out for drinks.

(Going out for drinks was dangerous. Unpredictable. Sometimes a couple of beers loosened him up and made him better able to be fun and social. But it also made him more likely to talk about things without thinking through whether Foggy should hear them. And these days there were so many things Foggy shouldn’t hear.)

—

“Long day?” Foggy asked.

Matt nodded. “Yeah.” He took another sip of beer. It was hard to stay focused on acting okay for Foggy, with the very loud game of darts taking place on the other side of the room. Several people were cheering on one player, a woman who’d just pulled off something called a “ton eighty”, which was apparently a big deal.

“I told you I was the best,” she said and headed towards the bar.

“You work too hard,” Foggy said at the same time.

“There’s a lot of work to do.”

“Yeah, but you’re twice as good as most lawyers!” Foggy said. “You don’t have to work twice as hard! That’s like being four times as good!”

Partway to the bar, the woman Matt had been listening to paused.

“I’m twice as good _because_ I work twice as hard,” Matt said. “It’s like I told you in law school. If you want to get summa cum laude, you can’t take nights off.”

“Yeah, but you need a _few_! You look _really_ stressed out.” Foggy sighed and put a hand on Matt’s. “I don’t want you to stress yourself into a heart attack before we manage to get Nelson and Murdock up and running!”

Matt took another swig of beer. Nelson and Murdock. Now _there_ was a pile of worry. They’d been plotting to start their own firm for half a year, taking other jobs while they saved and planned, and he _still_ didn’t know how to make the budget work.

He’d talked Foggy into it while at Lanman and Zack, when they had shiny new JDs and the world stretching out before them. Going out and being a heroic protector of the vulnerable, his best friend by his side, had seemed like the greatest thing in the world. He hadn’t thought about what if he failed and dragged Foggy down with him.

He thought about it these days. Typically at night, while failing to sleep.

“Beer,” said the woman from the dart game, right next to Matt. She turned. “So, you two guys together, or can I borrow this cutie for a quick game of darts?”

Matt smiled and let go of Foggy’s hand. “No, he’s single. Although watch out, I hear he’s good.”

“Not him, you.” She took Matt’s hand. Her hand was small, but strong, with some odd calluses. Not a piano player, but possibly an instrument he wasn’t familiar with?

“Thanks, but I’m not great at darts.” Matt held up his cane. “Not my strong suit.”

There was a brief pause. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. She didn’t sound nervous. And her heartbeat was steady and calm.

“Um, I’m blind. Pretty sure I shouldn’t be throwing darts in a crowded bar.”

“I said, don’t worry about it.” She pulled Matt towards the dart board.

Matt turned to the bar. “Josie, you _can’t_ be on board with this.”

“You break it, you pay for it.”

“Foggy?”

Foggy laughed. “You injure anyone, I’ll defend you in court.”

“Traitor!” But Matt let himself be led off.

He wasn’t sure where this was going, but this woman seemed interesting. Something about her reminded Matt of Elektra. Bold, strange, and a little bit dangerous.

And he _needed_ dangerous right now. Needed it like oxygen.

-

“You’re sure I’m facing the right way?” Matt asked, feigning a nervous chuckle. He’d listened to the game earlier, and could probably hit a spot within an inch of where he’d heard it land, but he was playing the part of Normal Blind Matt, and normal blind people _hesitated_ when asked to throw pointy objects in a crowded room.

“You’re good.” She put a hand on his shoulder, making a final minute adjustment, then pressed a dart into his hand.

“Now don’t throw yet, just practice. I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

She stood behind him, and held onto his wrist, moving his arm in a throwing motion. “Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice. Athletic type? You’ve got some good muscles.” She pressed up against his back, her body startlingly warm, bringing Matt’s sense of touch into focus. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath through the skin, the way it pressed her breasts against him, the steady strong rhythm of her heart.

Where she touched his wrist, he almost thought he could feel the blood through her veins.

And for the first time in over a week, he felt alive.

“I try to keep in shape.”

“Okay, now do the throwing motion I showed you. Don’t release too soon. Although I don’t imagine _you’d_ have a problem with premature release.”

He did the arm motion she’d demonstrated, trying to ignore the heat radiating off her body, and the shifting scents of arousal she was giving off. (God, did _anything_ smell better than a woman when she was aroused?)

“Nice. Quick study. You move well. Okay, this time, but when I say, let go.”

He pulled his arm back, and moved to throw.

Her breath fell hot against his ear. “Now.”

He released the dart, hearing it stick in the board. “Well, I don’t hear a scream, so I'm guessing I did okay?”  

“Bullseye,” came the word, her breath like a caress. “You did just fine My name’s Eliza, by the way. My place, or yours?”

—

The word _sinner_ clicked through his head as they drifted to the bedroom, as she took off his shirt, and as he helped her free of her bra. But it was background noise at this point, had been since Elektra.

(Elektra wasn’t the first woman he’d been with, but the rest had been guilty fumbles, taking mental notes for confession even as his hand slid between the girl’s legs. Elektra has been the first to make him feel free.)

And when Eliza pushed him down on the bed and climbed on top of him, he found he didn’t care at all.

—

Matt lay in bed, Eliza snuggled next to him, one arm across his chest.

In the distance, he could hear a man scream.

It would be a bad idea to do something. He was in bed with a woman he barely knew. She could find out and call the police on him for being a vigilante.

“Please,” the man begged. “No.”

Matt slid free of Eliza’s arm, and dressed rapidly. Sweatpants, sneakers, and a hoodie with the hood pulled down low.

Behind him, Eliza sat up in bed.

Matt listened to her heartbeat, but he couldn’t catch any particular emotion. She was steady as a rock.

“Can’t sleep,” he said. “I’m going out for a walk. Just around the block. I know the neighborhood.”

“Okay.” Eliza lay back down.

Thanking God for his good fortune, Matt went out.

—

The man was in luck. Matt was less than a block away.

Matt found the apartment while he was still staggering around, clutching a knife-wound. “

I swear, I don’t know anything!” The man groaned. “I never heard of the guy!"

He had two children. He was trying to shield them with his body, even as he bled.

There were three attackers, one with a gun (freshly-maintained, distinct smell of gun oil), and two with no weapons that Matt could detect through the door.

Matt burst in, flicked the lights off, and went for the one with the gun first. That one was right-handed, and his right wrist gave a satisfying snap.

(They’d stabbed a father _in front of his children_. A broken wrist was the _least_ they deserved.)

The second one took a swing at Matt, while the third one came at him with a knife.

Matt felt a grin spread across his face.

He stepped out of the way of the punch, and then used the momentum to push that attacker in front of the one with the knife. The stab wound was shallow enough, and both men were yelling with surprise.

Matt went for the legs with two sharp kicks, breaking one shin apiece, and listening with satisfaction as they dropped to the floor.

Matt turned to the bleeding man. “The neighbor next door, you trust her?”

“I.,..”. The man was struggling to focus. “Yeah, she’s cool.”

“She’s calling 911. Tell her you need help. Have her bring you and the kids inside."

The man grabbed one child with each hand and fled. From the sound of it, he’d need an ambulance soon, but he’d live.

Matt turned his head down towards the attackers groaning on the floor. “I don’t know who or what you’re looking for, but don’t come back here. I’ll know.”

He waited until the sirens were close enough that no one with a broken leg could run away before he left.

—

He went back to bed, and curled up next to Eliza. 

He slept peacefully the rest of the night.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m back,” said Eliza, “And I brought donuts!”

“That settles it,” Foggy said. “This girl’s a keeper!

“You just think that because she brought enough for you.” Matt smiled when he spoke. This morning felt a bit easier, and talking to Foggy felt like working his way down a to-do list, rather than fighting through mud.

That might be a sign he was through the worst. Or it might not. Sometimes he had good days and then crashed again.

“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” said Foggy. “This is definitely a step up from your usual yogurt-flax-whatever health sludge.”

“You can say that again. He has the perfect kitchen for dieting. You don’t want to eat anything in it.” Eliza passed Foggy a donut with vanilla frosting and sprinkles. And then she gave Matt a filled donut. “Here, it’s strawberry. That’s fruit, so it’s healthy.”

Foggy laughed.

Matt sniffed, then took a bite. It only had a nodding acquaintance with actual strawberries, but it had been a while since he’d let himself have that much sugar in one meal.

_Slacking off? Losing your self-discipline. Stick taught you that your body could be an incredibly efficient weapon if you kept it maintained. Are donuts really the best fuel?_

_Even Stick bought me an ice cream once in a while. One donut won’t hurt._

Eliza sat down and grabbed a chocolate glazed with chocolate frosting. “I have to confess, this isn’t just me being nice. I actually wanted to get some advice on legal matters.”

Matt tensed up. Next to him, he could sense Foggy doing the same.

“I’m a photographer,” she said. “Mostly portraits. Work has been light lately, so I took work for this guy, O’Keefe. I knew he was doing porn, but I thought it was legit porn, you know? The normal kind. Until I saw some of the girls he was bringing in.”

Matt swallowed hard and set the donut down. He’d lost his appetite.

Eliza’s heart was beating regularly as a metronome. She wasn’t lying. “They seemed scared. Upset. Men were marching into the room and barking orders at them. So I told O’Keefe I wanted out. Then he said I was going to keep working for him, on one side of the camera or the other. He said he knew people, and if he saw me go to the cops, he’d have me taken out. And he said that since I agreed to work for him, _I’d_ go to jail if _he_ did. Is that true? I don’t want to go to jail.” Her voice quivered on the last bit.

Her heart rate hadn’t changed once.

Foggy spoke first. “You could go to the district attorney with what you know. I know some cops you can trust. And I’ve got some contacts at the DA’s office.”

“And you’d represent me?” Eliza asked. “I shouldn’t,” Matt said. An uncomfortable twinge of guilt started to develop.

_You really thought a woman like her would come to you just because she finds you so sexy?_

“Why not?” “Ethics rules about relationships with clients.”

“I mean they’re not _that_ strict,” Foggy said, then stopped. “I can represent you. I kill at research, and if it goes to court, which it probably won't, I can bring someone in.”

Eliza turned her head from Matt to Foggy and then back. “Is he that good, Matt? My future is on the line.”

“He is,” Matt said. Foggy was _very_ good when he buckled down. He wasn’t typically as driven as Matt was, and he had a bit of a confidence problem when it came to standing up in court, but when he pushed himself, he could knock it out of the park.

She paused, and then nodded. “Okay, sounds good. Let’s set it up.”

—

Foggy had gone home.

Matt was sitting on the couch, the same few thoughts going around and around in his head.

_She needed help. She was desperate. That’s why she came to you._

_You slept with a woman who came to you in fear for her life._

_Don’t assume_ , he told himself.

But even the possibility...

It wasn’t doing him any good running over it like this. He was just wasting his time.

( _“God hates sloth,” said Sister Joan’s voice in his head. “It’s an insult to his glory, wasting the gift of life he has given you.”_ )

He should just ask. But what if she said it was _true_? He didn’t think he could take that.

( _Disgusting, making it all about **your** feelings, when she’s the one who…_ )

Or what if she denied it because she thought Foggy wouldn’t help her, so he’d think it was fine, thinks she wanted to be with him, when every time they went to bed she was only enduring it out of fear.

Eliza sat down next to him, and grabbed his laptop off the table. “I hope you’re not using this, there’s a Mets game on, and you don’t have a TV in this place.” She opened it up, unplugged the headphones, and started browsing.

“It’s fine,’ said Matt. “You’re a Mets fan?”

“Phillies,” she said. “I like to root for whichever team gets me the most fights.”

“Fights?” he asked, confused.

“On sports forums. I like to troll people. Everyone needs a place to work their aggression out.”

Matt nodded and left her to the game.  

He needed to think.

—

An hour later, he finally got up the nerve to ask. “So, um, this thing with O’Keefe...”

“Yeah?” She didn’t look up from the game.

“That’s not why you picked me up, is it?”

That got her to stop and turn her head. “You know,” Matt continued. “So I would help you. Did you think that you needed to...” He paused again, feeling sick at the words. “Did you think you had to sleep with me to get my help?”

Eliza paused for nearly a second. Her heart-rate didn’t change, and he couldn’t sense any signs of fear. Then she laughed. “No, of course not. I mean yeah, I heard your friend bragging about what a hot-shit lawyer you are, and that’s why I decided to _talk_ to you, but if _that_ was all I wanted, I would have just asked for your card.”

“So then why did you pick me up?”

“Have you _seen_ you?” She paused and let out an amused snort. “No, I guess you haven’t. Well trust me, there are perfectly good reasons for wanting to climb you like a tree _other_ than the possibility of free legal advice.” Eliza casually rubbed a hand along his thigh.

Matt felt the guilt start to fade. She’d been with him because she _wanted_ to, not because she was desperate. He _hadn’t_ taken advantage of her, even unintentionally.

And she wasn’t lying. Her heartbeat hadn’t changed at all.

She was fine.

The feeling was going to linger, he knew. That’s how it was when he got like this. Guilt and worry hit in sickening waves, and took time to drain away, even after he _knew_ he’d done nothing wrong. It was like poison, sloshing around in his bloodstream, taking hours to filter itself out.

Stick would tell him to stop slacking off on meditation and get his head sorted out. Sister Joan would tell him to look at the sins in his life. ( _Lust. Fornication. Lying. Hatred. Violence against others. The hopelessness and creeping iteration of acedia. Not going to confession or taking communion for over a year now. Would his sins never stop?_ )

Matt waited.

He reminded himself it would pass. He listened to the city, peaceful for once. He half-absorbed the baseball game. From time to time, Eliza would absently ruffle his hair.

After a while, she casually leaned against him.

The guilt slowly faded away.

—

Eliza left shortly after the game, having programmed Matt’s number into her phone. (She wouldn’t give him hers, for some reason, but she promised to call.)

Matt smiled, kissed her, and played the normal boyfriend role.

He then slumped down on couch, surprisingly tired, and gave himself an hour to just lay there and not do or decide anything or have anyone want anything from him.

_Giving in to acedia? This laziness is a sin._

_Yes, but I’m sinning every way I turn. It there any point fighting it? Is it ever going to get better, or am I screwed no matter what I do?_

_Despairing of God’s mercy? Another sin._

The thoughts went on for a solid half-hour, after which he gave up on the thought of allowing himself a break, and opened up his laptop instead.

—

He was on the computer going through depressing articles on the ways small law firms failed when the alarm on his computer told him it was an hour after sunset.

His mind had kept going over things, and it turned to going over failure, and what he was dragging Foggy into, and he’d decided to research how bad it could be.

But he couldn’t find clear numbers, so he kept digging and digging.

( _“No, I’m pissing my pants. There’s actual urine on my trousers. But I trust you. You think this is what we should be doing, then I’m with you. For better or for worse."_

 _Foggy trusted him that much, and Matt hadn’t even bothered to learn how much danger there was that he’d fail and drag them both down to financial ruin, he’d just asked Foggy to give up a huge opportunity to follow Matt’s dreams._ )

( _Why couldn’t he kill his own selfishness, and drive it out completely? Or, if he was going to weaken, at least weaken in a way that meant he could **enjoy** it?_ )

Matt closed the laptop. He could feel the lingering drag of inertia, making it hard to get up, get moving, change from bleak idleness to motion.

(Even for this, the last thing that sparked feeling in him, the inertia was starting to creep in, threatening to make it another hard, heavy chore. If he wasn’t careful, this would end up like it was after the breakup with Elektra, where he’d sometimes wind down like a clockwork toy and just _stop_ , with no sense of how or why he could get himself moving again.)

He forced himself to get up. He got changed. He started to feel better.

He sprinted through alleys and up fire escapes until he was on the rooftop of O’Keefe’s building.

By the time he arrived, the run had him feeling almost _normal_.

He still had worries, yes, but nothing that felt unbearable.

And building in him was the rarest of gifts in times like these, the feeling that he was actually _looking_ _forward_ to what was about to happen.

Things were about to get bloody.

—

The upper part of the building nearly empty. There were maybe four people inside on the upper floors, and two just inside the back door.

There was a group of twenty people in the basement. Women, from the sound of their voices. Not American. Southeast Asian, Matt would guess, from the accents, and the numerous ‘ng’ sounds in their whispered voices.

The guards were chatting, and didn’t seem at all alert.

Matt tossed some gravel towards the door.

“What was that?”, asked the taller one. He had a deeper voice, and heartbeat that sped up rapidly when he was startled.

The other one, the small man with a hint of a Boston accent and the slow, steady heartbeat of an athlete, replied “Probably the wind.”

Matt tossed some more gravel. One piece careened off and hit a garbage can, causing an alley cat to yowl angrily and sprint off.

“Oh, it was the cat,” Deep Voice said.

“I told you it was nothing to worry about,” said Boston.

Matt stifled a groan. How was he going to get these idiots outside?

“I’m going to step outside and have a smoke,” Boston said.

_Ask and you shall receive._

Matt waited for Boston to open the door, then slammed it into his head fast and hard enough to knock him unconscious. Deep Voice turned and drew a breath to yell, but Matt had an arm around his throat and was choking him out before he could make a sound.

Matt stepped inside and found the basement door, which was locked on the outside by a simple deadbolt.

Some of the women in the basement were awake. They turned as they heard him step down, and several heart rates escalated.

Matt put a finger to his lips, hoping there was enough light for them to see the gesture. “Be quiet. I’m here to rescue you.” One of the women nodded, and gestured to the others. She began speaking in their language, in low, urgent tones.

“Come with me. When we get outside, go out the back gate. I unlocked it. If we get separated, turn right, go five blocks, and then turn left and go three. That will get you to a police station. They should help you there.”

At least Matt _hoped_ they would.

The woman nodded, and then turned and translated the instructions. The word “Police” cropped up a few times, and seemed to generate argument. The woman translating hissed out a few sharp remarks, then turned to Matt and nodded.

Matt gestured for them to come up. They crept up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, Matt sensed no heartbeats. The guards weren't where he'd left them.

He turned to the escaping trafficking victims. “Run, Now. Now!” They all ran.

Shots rang out, and there was the click  of floodlights switching on.

Matt could hear people from the building running towards the escaping victims.

Matt had to stop them first.

Stop _all_ of them.

This was going to hurt. He grabbed a trash can lid and knocked down the first two to step out the door.

The third one had a gun.

Matt stepped in closer before he had the chance to aim, and started twisting his wrists. Matt took a few kidney punches, but he managed to get the gun out of the man’s hand and skittering away on the ground.

And then the rest of them closed in on him, and it was all he could do to not get killed.

He fought, hard elbow strikes and ruthless blows to the skull, but for every one he knocked down, someone else would step in.

Soon he was on the ground, curled up and being kicked repeatedly.

And he could hear a gun cocking.

There was a shot, and for a fraction of a second, Matt thought he was dead.

Then blood spattered across his face, and he realized _he_ wasn’t the one who’d been shot.

One of his attackers fell.

 

With a click, fast and professional, a distant sniper reloaded and fired.

Another attacker dropped.

Someone was shooting.

And they were, or _thought_ they were, on Matt’s side.

Matt twisted free of the fleeing attackers. He stood up warily, then more freely. The sniper wasn’t after _him_.

He chased after the one attacker, a big man with a heavy step, who’d broke free and was trailing the trafficking victims.

The attacker was half a block away from a teenager with a sprained ankle when Matt brought him down.

—

Matt backtracked and found the sniper’s perch. It was on the roof of the building across from O’Keefe’s.

There was barely a trace. No spent shell-casings. If not for Matt’s ability to reconstruct the bullet’s path is his head, he wouldn’t have found it.

(“Good spatial reasoning” one of his high school math teachers had said. He hadn’t known the half of it.)

There was a lingering scent. Gunpowder, and a hint of something floral. Familiar, but Matt couldn’t quite place it.

In the corner, wedged between a couple of bricks, there was a card.

Matt picked it up. It felt like a playing card.

He sniffed it. New, straight out of the pack.

He was going to need to ask someone what card it was.

And he didn’t know how to explain why.

—

“Eliza, could you do me a weird favor?”

“Sure,” she said. “In bed?”

Matt laughed, a practiced chuckle that made him sound like a normal person with real feelings who didn’t have to remind himself to react. “Can you tell me what this card is?”

Eliza picked it up and turned it over.

For the first time since they’d met, her heart rate spiked with stress.

“Where did you get it?”

“Some old lady in the park,” Matt lied. “She said she could tell my fortune. I think she was trying to get money off me.” _Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord_ , said Sister Joan’s voice in his head.

“She didn’t tell you what it was? Even though you’re blind?”

“I don’t think she realized. I was sitting on a bench with my cane folded up. And she didn’t seem all there.”

“Well, she must not have liked you. She gave you the ace of spades.” She paused, then when Matt didn’t jump in, she continued. “The death card.”

Matt did his practiced laugh again. “Don’t tell me you’re superstitious.”

“Not about most things.”

“This _really_ worries you!” Matt grinned wider, hoping it looked natural. “That’s sweet. But I can take care of myself. I’m more capable than I look.”

“Yes,” she said. “I believe that.”

—

The whole rest of the day, she kept turning her head towards Matt, stealing glances when she thought he wouldn’t notice. It was all Matt could do to not ask her why.

—

“Matt, what happened to you?” Foggy asked, shock in his voice. He was so alarmed that the smell of his adrenaline was starting to taint the air.

Oh God, not _this_. Matt had been having stretches of feeling almost _human_ , but he knew staving off a worried Foggy would drain him completely.“Does it look that bad?”

“It looks like someone beat the crap out of you!”

“I fell.”

“Again?” Foggy asked. “You fell last month taking out the garbage! What’s really going on?”

Foggy wasn’t going to let it drop. He was going to _dig_. And Matt knew he _should_ feel grateful, he _should_ appreciate having a concerned friend, but all he could feel was exhaustion and dread at the effort it was going to take to have this conversation. Why was having someone care about him so _hard_?

“Some kids left some of their stuff on the steps of my building,” said Matt. “Playing cards.” Why did he pick those? “I slipped and fell, took a header, hit the stairs on the way down. Got clipped on the chin pretty good.”

“Have you been to a doctor?”

“It’s just some bruises. I don’t need a doctor. And before you start, I don’t need a dog.” Maybe a joke would get Foggy to stop digging.

“Okay first, what have you got against dogs? No, wait, first you need to sit down and have a beer. _Then_ you tell me what you have against dogs, then I figure out if I have to drag you to a doctor.”

“I’m fine,” said Matt, hoping that it had worked. “But I won’t say no to a beer.”

—

Foggy was finishing up his third beer, and kept turning his head towards Matt. “Okay, _seriously_ , what’s the deal? You _never_ fall, and now it’s twice in like a month?”

Matt swallowed. He’d thought Foggy had dropped the subject, but no, this conversation was apparently _never_ going to stop. “It was an accident. Everyone has accidents.”

Foggy shook his head vigorously. “Not you! I spent three winters rooming with you, running around Columbia campus in the dead of winter, over _all kinds_ of icy shit, and I must have fallen on my ass half a dozen times! You? _Never_! You’re like a cat! I could drop you off a building and you’d land right-side up!”

God no, Foggy was _noticing_ things. Matt forced out another laugh. “Please tell me you’re not drunk enough to test that theory.”

“No, really.” Foggy leaned in and put a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Look, I know something’s going on with you. Something’s bothering you. I’ve been hoping you’d tell me, but I get it, some shit’s hard to talk about. When it seemed to just be stress, I was willing to wait until you felt like talking. But I’m not going to stand by and watch you get beat up!”

Matt took another long swig of beer, fighting down the knot of guilt in his stomach. “I’m fine, Foggy. No one beat me up. It’s just stupid bad luck. I’ll be more careful.”

Foggy opened his mouth like he was about to speak, then stopped. He gave Matt’s shoulder a squeeze, then sagged back in his chair and downed the rest of his beer. “Is that how it’s going to be? Okay then, fine, to use your new favorite word. But if you ever decide to stop avoiding the problem, I’m here. Don’t say anything,” Foggy said, putting a hand up. Apparently he was drunk enough to forget that Matt wasn’t supposed to be able to sense hand gestures. “If I have to listen to you telling me you're fine and nothing’s wrong one more time, I swear to God, I’ll scream.”

Matt finished his beer in awkward silence.

—

For the next few days, he begged off time with Foggy, making sure he was too busy with Eliza.

Eliza was easier to be around. She wasn’t that interested in taking him out somewhere, and was happy to come over to his place, which wasn’t much effort. She would generally take off relatively quickly, before having to act normal had Matt completely drained.

And she didn’t ask how he was. He could even drop the act a bit, zone out, worry, let her see some signs of how tired he was, and how hard everything was. And she wouldn’t act concerned. She’d suggest sex, or watch baseball on his laptop, or take off, claiming she had business, but she never asked if he was okay. She didn’t act worried the way Foggy did. She didn’t seem that _interested_ in his feelings, beyond whether he was up for joining in with what she wanted.

She didn’t _care_.

Matt had no illusions about that being good or healthy, but it was _such_ a fucking relief to be around someone who didn’t require him to pretend.

—

After Eliza left one night, Matt dug out what he’d come to think of as his fighting clothes.

They were in the usual drawer, but they were folded differently.

He picked one up, and sniffed it. There was a noticeable hint of Eliza’s lotion, the one she liked that was supposed to smell of violets, but to Matt’s nose smelled like a chemistry-lab approximation of one.

She must have gone through his drawer. Was she looking for something? She hadn’t seemed that interested in his things or his life before. Why wouldn’t she ask?

Odd that she picked _those_ clothes. They looked innocent enough, like something he could wear going for a workout.

It might just have been coincidence. Stranger things had happened.

\--

He was starting to feel better, he knew. Still tired, but it was less intense. He’s find himself laughing naturally at a joke, noticing the sound of a bird in one of the trees outside his building, or walking past a restaurant and savoring the smell. Instead of simply feeling drained by his senses, every sound, scent, taste or touch stealing one more little piece of his energy, he started having moments of _interest_ in the world, and even brief flashes of pleasure.

Work was improving. Things had been piling up, despite his best effort, and he now felt like he was starting to dig himself out. He wasn’t doing his best work, nothing he’d consider impressive, but he wasn’t _failing_ his clients. He wasn’t letting everyone down.

Maybe Eliza was helping. For all of her indifference, she had a knack for creating distractions, with sex, with small talk, or with just the sound of her watching her incessant baseball game games. (Matt had never been more than a casual fan. He’d follow the scores in the papers, and join in when everyone went to a sports bar to watch the series, but that was the limit of his interests. He hadn’t realized how many televised games there were.). Without any sign of a plan, she’d interrupt his thoughts with a request for sex, or wanting to go out running. (She’d read an article on blind people and running, which he hadn’t expected from her, and had started asking him to join her on jogs around the park. _Those_ were effort, because he needed to play the part of a normal blind man, tripping on hazards she forgot to call out, and going the wrong way as if the temperature variations and pressure of the air didn’t tell him exactly where the jogging path was.)

Maybe it helped that he’d been...going out at night. The action. The exercise. The sense of purpose. The ability to help people.

( _You like hurting people_ , said a traitorous part of his brain.

Matt tried to ignore it. He liked _helping_ people. He liked having a positive impact that he could feel. It helped having a person right in front of him who was safe because of him.

 _Bullshit. You’re not volunteering for a crisis line. You’re beating people bloody in the dead of night, and you’re doing it because you like the sound of their pain._ )

Maybe he’d just managed to wait it out. This too shall pass, as Sister Joan had said in her kinder moments.

Whatever it was, he could see a light at the end of the tunnel.

He might have nearly worked himself free of the dragging weight. One he reached the end of this, he was never going to let himself get lazy enough to bring that on again.


	3. Chapter 3

As they paused outside the DA’s office, Eliza gave Matt’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you so much for coming with me. This is scary.”

She’d asked him along for moral support, which had mildly surprised him. She didn’t normally act vulnerable around him.

Matt squeezed her hand back. “It will be okay.”

They stepped inside. On one side of the desk, in an office chair that smelled of vinyl and plastic, sat Foggy.

Across the desk, in a chair that smelled of real leather, sat the DA.

Foggy started to move towards Matt, then stopped and turned towards Eliza. He paused for a moment, then reached out, “Here Matt, I’ll lead you to a chair.”

Matt took Foggy’s arm. Had Foggy expected Eliza to lead Matt to a chair? She didn’t do that kind of thing. She didn’t help Matt unless he asked her to, and he didn’t ask.

(He _liked_ having someone around who didn’t care about helping him, who wasn’t always keeping a careful eye out in case something was hard for Poor Matt, in case Poor Matt was struggling, in case there was an opportunity to inflict their good deed for the day on Poor, Blind Matt.)

( _Uncharitable_ , echoed Sister Joan’s voice. _Uncharitable, ungrateful, and sinfully proud._ )

Eliza didn’t seem embarrassed. Her heart was beating steadily, more steadily than Matt would expect, considering how nervous she’d said she was.

Foggy lead Matt to a chair by the wall with the door, slightly to the left. He then took his seat, next to Eliza.

“Please to meet you,” said the DA, reaching a hand across the desk. “Mr. Nelson has informed me of your courage in coming forward to testify.”

“I appreciate all of his help,” Eliza said.

“Would you please state your name for the record?”, asked the DA.

“Certainly. It’s"

-

“Suddenly a shot rang out.

Eliza fell out of her chair and hit the floor hard.

A liquid began spurting from her chest.

Foggy dropped to his knees right next to her.

“What’s happening?” Matt asked, standing up.

“What...Eliza? Are you okay?”

“Call an ambulance!” Foggy yelled. “She’s been shot!”

 _No she hasn't_ , Matt nearly blurted out.

She _hadn’t_ been shot.

There was no smell of blood.

Matt couldn’t sense any injuries on Eliza at all.

And, while she was lying on the floor making pained and gasping noises, her heartbeat was steady and calm.

Matt felt a sick feeling building in his stomach. “Eliza,” he muttered.

“Hold on,” Foggy said. “The ambulance is on its way.”

—

The EMTs arrived surprisingly fast. “She’s still breathing,” Foggy said. “That’s good, right?”

The EMTs loaded her on the stretcher. One fastened an IV to her hand, but from the lack of blood smell, Matt could tell the needle hadn’t been inserted.

They were in on this.

“I want to go with her,” Matt said. “I’ll ride in the ambulance with her.”

If he could go with her, he could know what the plan was, he could learn if if Eliza was being forced or pressured into this, or...

“Can’t do that,” said the EMT.

Foggy put a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “We’ll meet her at the hospital. Metro General, right?”

An EMT nodded. “He just nodded,” Foggy said.

“Matt, let them work. I’ll take you there immediately.”

The stretcher wheeled away, carrying Eliza with it.

—

“What do you mean you don’t have any records of her?” Foggy yelled. “She was heading straight to this hospital! Don’t you keep track of ambulances?”

“We absolutely do, sir,” said the nurse. “And we have no records of anyone by that name, or any gunshot victims fitting that description. Maybe she was taken in to a a different hospital?”

“Dammit!” Foggy punched the counter.

“Sir, calm down or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Foggy let out a groan of frustration, and walked back over to Matt. “Unbelievable. The EMTs must have screwed up. I’ll track her down, buddy. Don’t worry.”

He patted Matt on the back.

Matt didn’t speak. He was hunched over in the chair, his head in his hands, a painful knot in his stomach.

His brain was going around in circles, thinking the same thoughts over and over again.

Eliza faked being shot.

That meant she’d tricked them all, probably in order to do something criminal.

And he couldn’t tell anyone.

What was he supposed to do, go to the cops, tell them he had heightened senses and would beat up criminals at night, and he knew Eliza had faked being shot?

If they gave him a chance to prove he wasn’t _insane_ , they’d be more likely to arrest him than investigate what happened to Eliza.

And he couldn’t tell Foggy. That would just drag him deeper into this mess.

(Had he gotten Foggy in trouble? He couldn’t think how, but there were _so many things_ he didn’t think of, and he didn’t want to stake Foggy’s future on whether Matt had covered all of the bases.)

(He needed to think, it was so important that he think, why was it so hard to _think_?)

That left hunting Eliza down on his own. If he found her... He couldn’t find a way to end that sentence.

He’d gotten himself into a situation where there was no good way out, and every choice was a different kind of wrong.

He rubbed his face with his hands, not even hoping for relief at this point, just wanting to feel _something_ other than the sickening pit of guilt and hopelessness that was opening up inside of him.

It didn't work.


	4. Chapter 4

“Foggy. Foggy.”

Matt sighed and picked up the phone. Foggy was clearly not going to stop calling until he did.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Matt. I called to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” Matt said automatically.

“ _Are_ you?”

“I’m not,” Mat said. “I’m really not.” And that _should_ have been a relief to admit, but he knew he’d just have to spin another story of being the right kind of not-fine, of suffering the way Foggy expected him to.

And it was draining.

 _Everything_ was draining.

“Work gave you some time off?”

“Yeah.” He’d called in, and told them his girlfriend had been kidnapped and was still missing. No one else would consider that a lie.

“So you’re home?”

“Yeah. I was having a nap.” Another lie, but it sounded better than “I was lying on the couch, unable to either sleep or focus on any kind of distraction, because my brain won’t stop going around about the problem I created, and how there’s no way out and nothing I can do to make things better, and wondering how much trouble I’ve caused myself, and even worse, you.”

After what happened with Eliza, Matt had crashed hard.

He’d stopped exercising. He’d begun staying in at night, because even though part of him wanted to be back out there, he was sure he’d only cause more damage. He was eating, well, eating _something_ , here and there. (Mostly nuts and dried fruit, from the jars on the kitchen counter. Sometimes a yogurt from the fridge. Sometimes just beer.)

He would sleep sometimes, in short bursts, only to wake up in the middle of the night with nothing to distract him from his own head.

He was a bit afraid he wasn’t going to pull out of it this time.

( _Nonsense_ , said something in his head, _that’s just an excuse. You **could** pull out of it if you tried harder. It’s just laziness that’s dragging you down_.

 _Maybe it would be better if you did give up_ , said something else. _The thing you like best is going out into the night and hurting people. Do you **really** think people are better off with someone like that around? If you sink down so far you can’t look after yourself, at least it keeps other people safe from **you**._

He needed to clear his head. He needed to figure out what was the right thing to do. He needed to get moving.

Why couldn’t he make that happen?)

“I’m coming over tonight,” said Foggy. “I’m bringing pizza and beer. We can talk.”

“I don’t feel like talking,” said Matt.

He didn’t want Foggy to come over. If Foggy came over, Matt would have to lie, or tell the truth, and either possibility seemed unbearable.

“Fine, I’m coming over and we can eat our pizza in total silence. It will be the longest awkward pause of our lives.  But I’m not leaving you alone.”

“I’d rather be alone right now,” Matt said, in his most reasonable-sounding voice.

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t be. I’m coming. End of discussion.”

—

Matt dragged himself off the couch. If Foggy was coming over, he needed to look sad-but-functional.

He needed to shave. He needed to take out the trash and the recycling (he didn’t think that there were enough empty beer bottles in there to worry Foggy, but better to get it all taken care of at once). He needed to straighten up the place, and make sure it didn’t make him look like he’d crossed the line from “understandably sad” to “alarming”.

Dear God, he was going to have to _make conversation_.

With heavy steps, Matt got moving.

—

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I brought pizza.” Foggy held a box. Pepperoni and sausage, from the smell of it.

“Thank you.” Matt paused. Was he supposed to say something here? Would it look like the normal level of unhappy if he couldn’t think of anything to say, or did he have to make more effort?

He needed to clear his head. He needed to get moving. He needed to do something with himself.

And that was going to be so much harder if he was drained from having to keep up a role for Foggy.

( _Is **that** how you think about your friend? He comes here, concerned, because he thinks you’re having a hard time, and you can’t muster up a **little** gratitude? Is it some kind of **hardship** having people who care about you?_ )

(It _was_. That was the awful thing. He knew he wasn’t supposed to think those things, he wasn’t supposed to feel like Foggy’s concern was a burden that made everything harder, but right at the moment, it was.)

Foggy walked over and put the pizza on the table. “So, are we being adults and using plates or eating straight out of the box?”

“Cupboard directly to the right of the sink.”

Foggy got the plates. “Place looks nice. Did you clean?”

“A little.” He’d done a decent amount, actually. It turned out that both the desire to avoid unpleasant smells _and_ the fear of being found out were effective at getting Matt to get up and move.

“I was sure you were going to be in bed all day.” Foggy set the plates on the table. “Come. Eat pizza.”

Matt went over and sat down. He nibbled at the pizza. It tasted of salt, mostly. The tomato sauce had a hint of the can it was kept in. And the less said about the cheese, the better.

“So, how are you?” Foggy asked. “No bullshit.”

Matt swallowed his bite of pizza. “Hanging in there.”

“I am _so_ sorry about this. You have no idea. I thought the DA’s office could be trusted to take care of security.”

Matt swallowed again, this time because a lump of guilt had formed in his throat. Foggy was blaming _himself_? “This isn’t your fault. None of this is.”

“Thanks.” Foggy put a hand on Matt’s shoulder. “It’s not yours either. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Matt lied. If Foggy knew the truth, he wouldn’t be here _comforting_ Matt like this. If Foggy knew the truth, he might not come back at all.

( _Isn’t that what you wanted? Him not **burdening** you with his concern any more?_ )

( _I didn’t mean it like that_.)

( _How **did** you mean it, then?_ )

(He couldn’t think of an explanation that made sense, not even to himself.)

They ate for several minutes in silence.

—

“There’s something I have to talk about,” said Foggy, handing Matt a beer. “And I know this is going to be hard. Eliza’s been missing for four days now.”

“I know,” said Matt.

“And...I talked to the cops, and they...they haven’t ruled out finding her alive, but they told me...that’s not the likeliest outcome at this point.” Foggy set his own beer down on the table. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do,” said Matt. “They think she might be dead.” He immediately wondered if he’d been too blunt, insufficiently emotional. But the thought of not only _lying_ to Foggy, but _acting_ the part of a grieving boyfriend made him feel sick.

“They don’t know, but...she _was_ shot.” Foggy ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m so sorry to bring this up, but I wanted to make sure someone else didn’t surprise you with it.”

“Thank you,” said Matt. Foggy’s voice sounded absolutely ragged with misery, and Matt was making it worse by keeping this secret. But if he _told_...

Lying to Foggy over a few bruises was one thing, but the lies he was telling now were absolute Hell.

“Matt, I swear, I’m not going to let them stop looking until they find who did this to her and bring them to justice.”

They lapsed into silence.

“I know this has to be hard,” said Foggy.

Matt didn’t answer. What could he say? Lying to Foggy about this was unbearable, and telling him the truth was impossible.

“Matt?  Come on, talk to me.”

“I...” Matt started. “Eliza, she...”. He stopped. “This is all...”. He stopped again. “Foggy...”

“I’m here.”

Matt swallowed down some more guilt. Foggy was determined to be here for for him ( _Foggy_ being here for _Matt_ , when it was _Foggy_ who was hurting because of the lies, and Matt _knew_ and wouldn’t say) and if Matt was going to make this make any sense at all, he was going to need to get out from Foggy’s painfully sincere concern.

“I...I need some time to think. To make sense of this. I just...it’s hard to believe,” Matt lied.

“That makes sense,” said Foggy. “It’s a lot to deal with.”

“So I think I need some time alone.”

“You sure? I could stay. You wouldn’t even have to say anything. I could just hang out.”

Matt shook his head. “Thanks, but I just need a little time to myself. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Foggy sighed. “Okay, we’ll talk tomorrow. And eat the pizza, okay? You look like you need it.”

Matt nodded. “And don’t wander around in the middle of the night. This isn’t Columbia. It’s not safe here.”

Matt turned his head sharply to Foggy. “You...knew about that?”

“Yeah,” said Foggy, his voice sounding a little less pained. “I woke up in the middle of the night for a piss once, and you were gone. Scared the crap out of me! I nearly called campus security in case you’d...in case something had happened to you.”

“I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“You’re my best friend! Of course I noticed! It was a huge relief to see you back in bed the next morning. Insomnia?”

“Something like that,” Matt said.

“I get it. That can be a bitch and a half. Sometimes it’s easier to get out of bed than to keep trying to make sleep happen. But if you can’t sleep, just...do something inside your apartment? Please don’t wander around. I don’t want to worry about you getting into dangerous situations in the middle of the night.”

“I won’t,” said Matt.

“Good. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”

—

Matt had been lying on the couch staring into space for three hours when the break-in happened.

Matt didn’t move when he heard the doorknob rattle, or the clicks of the lock picks. He didn’t want to give away too much. He mentally mapped the position of the half-empty water glass, the book he’d set on the table intending to read, and the laptop.

The man opened the door. He was six foot four, with the kind of muscular build seen on working-class men who made a living with their hands. He had a baseball bat slung over his left shoulder. “Matt Murdock? This is a message from Halloran.”

For a moment, one horribly long instant, Matt thought the inertia wasn’t going to let him go, and he was going to just _lay_ there while some thug beat him to death.

And then the adrenaline kicked in and he snapped into action. He sat up, and in one motion threw the book at the intruder.

It missed, but while the man was ducking, Matt hopped over the table, cracked the glass against the wall, and had the jagged end at the man’s throat before he could swing his bat.

“What’s the message?” Matt asked.

The man didn’t answer. He started to turn his head towards Matt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Matt said. “There’s broken glass very close to your jugular. If you made any sudden movements, it could open up the vein, and you’d be dead in seconds.” There was something nastily satisfying about being in this position, knowing he held a man's life in his hands. “Now what did Halloran want with me?”

“You and your friend set the law on him. He says he’s going to make you regret it.” The man spoke nervously, his pulse rapid with fear. “He says...Halloran told me to tell you that killing your girl was only the start, and you’re all gonna be an example of what happens when people go to the law.” “

I see,” said Matt. “He doesn’t like it when people go to the law? I’ll take that under advisement.” He stepped back. “Now walk away. Don’t try anything. You _know_ I can do more than you thought I could. You don’t want to find out how far that goes.”

He could feel a slow smile spread across his face.

The man fled.

—

Matt put on his fighting clothes, trying to figure things out in his head.

Halloran was claiming he’d killed Eliza. That meant she was either working for him or being threatened into going along with whatever he was doing.

Part of the plan was to use her to intimidate Matt, Foggy, and anyone who tried to go after Halloran legally.

But why were they working in such a weird, complicated way? It was like they were using Eliza as bait in a trap, but Matt couldn't figure out who they were trying to trap.  

He’d figure that out later. Now he had a crime lord to deal with.

_Are you sure you’re up for this? You’re not just going to fuck up again? You barely got moving when a man broke in and tried to attack you. You think you can handle going on the attack?_

Matt felt the creeping self-doubt start to drain his adrenaline. He tried to shove the thoughts out of his mind.

_You could get killed. Is that what you **want**? Get killed without having to admit that you arranged for it to happen? You think if you don’t admit it, God won’t know what you did? You think playing games will hide the sin? _

That wasn’t it. That _wasn’t_ what he was trying to do here. He wasn’t afraid to die, but he wasn’t _trying_ to get killed.

_You don’t want it? Not even a little?_

Matt felt an uncomfortable knot form in his stomach.

 _Go_ , said a different part of his mind, one that hadn’t spoken in a while. _If you don’t keep moving you’ll talk yourself out of it, and if you let that happen, they could go after Foggy next time._

_Save Foggy._

_And save yourself._

—

He stopped at a hardware store on his way over, and then an electronic store.

He paid cash at both stories. He got a selection of useful equipment, including thumb drives, a small digital recorder, a couple of interesting electronic timers, a burner phone, a cheap set of earbuds, a crowbar and zip ties.

He was going to end this, and end this hard.


	5. Chapter 5

Halloran’s men were in the office on the eighth floor. It was nearly empty when Matt got in, only two men. He was able to choke them both out and zip-tie them to doorknobs without much effort.

Someone, probably nighttime cleaning staff, was puttering around the break room. Matt made sure to stay out of sight. Hopefully, he could finish this off without involving her.

The computers were all networked. The first one Matt tried had enough receipts, documents, and bank statements to tie Halloran to O’Keefe, the house Matt had raided, _and_ a string of recruiting businesses in Southeast Asia.

Matt loaded up multiple copies on half a dozen thumb drives, then pulled out his burner phone and set off the first timer.

Then the door to the suite opened.

Matt hadn’t heard them coming. He’d had headphones in to navigate the voiceover feature on the computer, and had let himself get distracted.

Quickly, he pulled the headphones out and ducked down low.

“This way, Mr. Halloran,” said a man’s voice. Halloran was followed by a group of seven people. At least a few were carrying guns, recently fired, by the GSR smell.

Matt wasn’t sure how many were armed. He had a slim chance of making it out undetected.

One of them flicked on a light switch, and yelled. He’d found the men Matt had stopped earlier.

Now Matt’s only choice was to fight his way out.

He tapped out some numbers on his phone and set off the second timer.

All of the power to this floor cut out.

“What the fuck?”

“Check the circuit breaker!”

“Stick with Mr. Halloran!”

Matt grabbed his final purchase form the hardware store, a crowbar, and went to work.

—

After the first gunman’s shot went wild, and the crowbar came down hard on his head, Matt concentrated on creating chaos and fear.

He used Halloran's men against each other, stepping between them and out of the way so their attacks sent them crashing into each other, and they were all so tangled no one dared to use the guns.

They were panicky and trapped, stumbling over each other and crashing into walls, while Matt moved confidently and knew _exactly_ where everything was.

He felt fast and powerful and absolutely in control.

Right up until Halloran let out a pained gurgle and dropped to the ground, blood pouring from his neck.

—

Something was thrown, small and quiet like a dart, and another one of the men hit the ground.

Matt dropped low, and rolled behind the desks. Whoever threw that was in the break room, tossing the darts through a gap in the door.

To hit from that angle, they must have _very_ good aim.

Even as he crouched down, Matt heard another man hit the floor.

The dart fell out of his neck, and rolled towards Matt.

Matt picked it up. It was a pencil. An ordinary pencil, sharpened on one end.

The killer must have _incredible_ skill to pull that off.

And despite having killed three people, the killer's heart was beating steady as a drum.

—

Halloran’s surviving men had stepped back, out of range of the break room door. Several of them had begun digging through their pockets for their phones.

“Okay,” said one, a tall man who smelled of cologne.

“Everyone’s phone on flashlight mode? Keep it in one hand, the gun in the other. You spot the guy with the crowbar, you shoot him. Psycho with the pencils steps out, you shoot him.”

 _Her_ , Matt thought. Psycho with the pencils was definitely a her.

She smelled female.  

Definitely female.

And naggingly familiar.

The phones began tilting. The men were doing a sweep.

If they spotted Matt, this would be over.

There was only one place left to go.

(The sniper last time hadn’t been shooting at _him_.)

He did a fast roll towards the break room door.

—

He yanked the door back hard, as soon as he made it in, and then ducked in, his back towards the killer, at an angle where she’d _think_ she would be able to sneak up behind him, but he'd be well-positioned for a sharp elbow strike if he'd guessed wrong and she was after him.

(One of the weaknesses most people had, due to relying on their eyes, was trouble keeping track of what was behind them. Matt didn’t have that weakness.)

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said the killer. “Seriously?”

“Eliza?” Matt asked, as the confusion in his brain suddenly resolved. It sounded like her voice, smelled like her scent, her heartbeat, everything, seemed to be her.

But she’d killed three men with nothing more than a few pencils, and that made no sense at all.

“How the _fuck_ did you catch me? Are you even _blind_?”

Matt didn’t answer. Outside, he could hear the remnants of Halloran’s men rally. 

Her heart rate.  It hadn't changed the way most people's do when they lie, except when he'd found the card.  When he'd brought back a clue from the sniper's nest, her heart rate had spikes.

It wasn't because she didn't lie.

It was because she didn't care that she did.

Most people felt guilt or discomfort when they lied, even if they didn't admit it.

Most people had a conscience. 

“I mean I thought you were just a conveniently hot blind lawyer, I could do the job and get laid, always a bonus. Then I thought you were faking blind, to hide your combat skills. But your pattern of behavior made no sense, and now you're _here_? What is your fucking _deal_?”

“You faked being shot,” said Matt, as his brain stopped balking. She’d faked being shot because dead women weren’t murder suspects. She’d set the whole thing up to make herself look like a victim, when she’d been a criminal all along.

Not just a criminal.

An assassin.

A killer who, going by her heart rate, could murder three men without feeling a thing.

“You spotted that? Is _that_ why you took your sweet time acting on it? I thought you were just depressed.”

Something in Matt’s brain squirmed at the word, but he shoved it aside. “You arranged all of this in order to kill Halloran.”

She snorted. “Killing Halloran was just the bonus. My job is the same as yours - make sure the _organization_ gets taken down.”

“You’re here to fight crime? You killed three people.”

“Three people so far,” she said. “Let’s say _tonight_ I’m here to fight these criminals. We can be vigilantes together! For at least the next ten minutes or so. What do you say?”

“You’re a murderer. Who are you working for, a rival criminal gang?”

She laughed. “Oh, you have no idea. Look, you’re going to have a hard time fighting your way out without me. And if we wait too long, they’ll bring the serious firepower.”

“The cops are on their way.”

“Are they?” Eliza asked. “How do you....did you call the cops on _yourself_?”

“I left a recorded message,” said Matt, trying to squash the strange feeling of embarrassment this admission created. “They should have gotten it about a minute ago.”

“You seriously _did_ that? I don’t even _want_ to kill you yet, not until I’ve made sense of you. I’ll probably come back and kidnap you first, really figure you out.”

Out the door, Matt heard a gun cock, and footsteps getting closer to the doorknob.

“What do you say, Butch, we fight our way out?”

“Butch?” Matt asked.

“I mean I’m obviously Sundance. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?” There was a pause. “You seriously haven’t seen it?”

“I don’t watch many movies.”

“ _Definitely_ kidnapping you one day. Torture and a movie sound good to you, darling?” She turned towards the door and shuffled the pens and pencils in her hand.

Matt could hear the first of Halloran’s men turning the doorknob. “Don’t kill anyone.”

“What are you, Batman?”

“Just don’t.” There were five of them outside, at least three with guns, and he was going to need help if he was going to get out alive.

“No promises.”

The door was flung open, and the first man came in, gun cocked. He collapsed with one of Eliza’s pens stuck into his thigh.

The second one stepped forward and started to aim his gun, but by then Matt was on him.

Matt snapped his wrist and then shoved him backwards into the third man, hard enough to stun them both, then used him as a shield between Matt’s body and the last gunman.

While the gunman was still struggling to aim, Matt knocked the unconscious gunman’s skull against his, let the unconscious man drop, and then took out the last gunman with a sharp elbow strike

As he was turning to face the final man, he heard a gun cock.

There’d been four guns.

He’d missed one.

The man pointing a gun at Matt collapsed, a pen to his jugular.

“I said no killing!”

“And I said no promises,” replied Eliza. She took the gun off one of the unconscious men. “You think I’m letting men who can put me at the scene live?”

Matt grabbed the wrist of her right hand. He felt a sharp pain in his leg, and narrowly managed to twist the gun from her grip even as he dropped to his knees.

She’d gotten his leg with a pen.

“You’re better than I thought,” she said. “But you made a mistake. I _know_ you’re not going to kill me, which limits your choices.”

She started to step back.

If she got enough distance on him, he’d be dead.

Matt shoved the pain down and lunged forward, grabbing her foot. That threw her off balance, and she fell back.

Matt dragged himself forward and got his arm around her neck.

She was hitting him, flailing, digging nails into any skin she could find, but she was disarmed, and he was choking her.

He made it a clean blood choke, compressing the veins without the risk of collapsing her windpipe, and in a matter of seconds she was out.

He could hear sirens. The cops were close now.

Using one of his zip ties, he fastened Eliza’s wrists together, and then to the nearest doorknob. She was unconscious, but he didn’t know for how long. And she was the most dangerous person here tonight. She wasn’t going free if Matt had any say.

(He didn’t _think_ she’d tell the police about him, but he wasn’t going to protect his identity if the cost was having her running around the city.)

He then dragged himself up and over to the window.

The first police car had pulled up in front of the building.

Matt knocked a hole in the window, then took the thumb drives he’d prepared, and let them fall right on the car.

A police officer stepped out, looked up in confusion, and began gathering them up.

Matt limped off to find the back fire escape before the cops sealed off the building.

—

“Hi, Matt, how are you holding up?” Brett stood in the door, awkwardly shifting his weight.

“Oh, you know” said Matt. He hoped that worked. His leg was still sore, but the puncture wound hadn’t been as deep as he’d feared and he could, with effort, walk without a noticeable limp.

After last night, the exhaustion and apathy hadn’t closed on him, but he was feeling the normal kind of tired, the kind that came from spending the night fighting instead of sleeping.

“I have some news about Eliza. Good and bad.”

“Yeah? Did you find her?” Matt asked. “Is she alive?”

“We found her. She’s alive.” Brett stepped inside.

“Matt, she...she’s not who you thought. We arrested her last night on the scene of multiple homicides. We think she’s a contract killer.”

“What?” Matt asked. Brett rubbed his face nervously.

“I don’t know what to say. The evidence is...if she tries to contact you, notify the police immediately.”

Matt furrowed his brow in genuine confusion. “Notify the police? You said you have her under arrest?”

“We _had_ her under arrest. We found the car that was transporting her today. It had three officers killed by puncture wounds, and a bloody hairpin. We think she’s planning to skip the country, and odds are she won’t come back for you. I mean you weren’t involved with this, you were just a guy who had the bad luck to meet the wrong woman. But we’re going to keep an eye on this street for the next week or so, and if you hear anything, do not hesitate to call.”

Matt nodded.

Brett put a hand on his shoulder. “Be careful.  She's bad news”

—

Foggy called a few hours later. “Matt?”

“Hi.”

“Hi. Did you talk to Brett?”

“Yeah, he came by. Did he talk to you?”

“Yes, he...what he said about Eliza…”

“I know,” said Matt.

“I’m going to come by tonight. We’ll go out for drinks, we can talk.”

“I’m fine. You don’t need to...”

"Trust me, buddy, I _need_ to. This is a hell of a shock for _me_ , plus I’ll feel better knowing you’re not alone right now. So do me a favor, and come out and get a drink with me.”

“Okay,” said Matt. He could probably manage a drink with Foggy.

It didn’t sound overwhelming.

He was almost looking forward to it.

—

“A hit-woman?” Foggy asked, finishing off his second beer. “I can’t believe it.”

“I know,” said Matt. He grabbed his own beer and took another sip.

“I can’t even imagine. That’s got to be a shock.”

“Yeah,” said Matt. He took another swig of beer. “Yeah, it was.” He should probably stop with the beer, if he wanted to make sure he didn’t say or do anything that would give away too much.

“I’ll get us another round,” said Foggy. “Hell, I’ll get us whisky. This is the night for it.”

On the other hand, Foggy had said _he_ needed it.

And Matt could probably manage a _few_ more drinks before he said the wrong thing.

“Sure,” said Matt. “I wasn’t planning on driving tonight.”

It was an old joke between them, and it didn’t get more than a token chuckle from Foggy, but it was a lighter moment than Matt had _thought_ he'd be able to manage.

—

“So like...”. Foggy stopped. “This is weird, but I have to ask - that time you were all banged up, was it...was it anything to do with Eliza?”

“No,” said Matt. He dug through his memory for the excuse he’d made. “I told you, I just fell.”

“It didn’t look like you fell.”

“Well, I did.” God, why wouldn’t Foggy drop it?

Because he cared.

Matt felt the guilt start to build up. He was _resenting_ the fact that someone cared about him.

Foggy put a hand on Matt’s wrist. (Foggy was very touchy-feely after a few drinks.). “It’s just...they said she took out three cops with a hairpin. I know _I_ couldn’t fight back against a woman who could do that.”

“And if _you_ couldn’t do it,” said Matt, annoyed by the note of bitterness in his own voice, “a blind man couldn’t.”

“It’s not because you’re blind, it’s because neither of us have...whatever the fuck it would take to fight back against a trained killer! We’re not…Captain America! You know me, Matt,” said Foggy, slapping a hand on the table. “I’ve _never_ treated you like you were weak or fragile. Abuse isn't about someone being weak or fragile, it's about someone else being willing to do horrible enough things to get what they want! And considering you were dating a woman who murdered half a dozen people with office supplies, you see why I would ask, right?”

“Yeah, I get it,” said Matt. He probably would have thought the same thing if the role was reversed. “I swear, it wasn’t her. She didn’t hit. me. She never hurt me.” _Technically_ a lie, given the leg injury he was trying to conceal, but she’d never hurt him in the sense that Foggy meant.

“Okay,” said Foggy, turning back to his drink. “Okay.”

—

“...I mean we’re going to need everything to be okay when we start Nelson and Murdock.”

Matt had only halfway been paying attention to Foggy’s drunken rambling, but at those words, the guilt started to form an almost physical lump in his throat. “About that..."

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to feel...I don’t want to drag you in to anything. I mean financially, it’s a huge risk, and...”

“I know. But I trust you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Matt said. He knew he wouldn’t have said this out loud while sober, but maybe it needed to be said. “I came up with an _idea_ for Nelson and Murdock, not a plan. I don’t know how to make us successful while taking the right kind of cases. I don’t know how to ensure we make enough money to pay off student loans. I’ve done some research, but I don’t _know_ , and as you can see from Eliza, I don’t always have the best judgment.”

“Okay, _first_ Eliza was a whole different detail. She fooled everyone!  It’s not bad judgment assuming your girlfriend _isn’t_ a secret assassin. Second, I _knew_ it was a risk! Starting a small law firm is _always_ a risk! But we can try. If we fail, I’ve got a law degree from Columbia, and a whole bunch of surprisingly well-off butchers and plumbers and hardware store owners who are family and therefore _obligated_ to loan me money. I’ll be okay. But if we succeed we can do something great. I trust I’m a lot better off following you into something potentially great than in picking the safe choice.”

“Thanks,” said Matt, mulling over Foggy’s words. The guilt didn’t go away - it didn’t work like that - but when it worked its way out of his blood, this time it might not come back as strong. (It might, he dared to hope, not come back at all.)

“Is _that_ what you were stressing about?”

Matt nodded. “It was."  He considered adding something about being tired and clumsy to explain why he'd been 'falling', but that might be overdoing the story.

“Do _you_ want to do this? I don’t want you worrying yourself sick about this because six months ago it seemed like a good idea.”

“I want this,” Matt told Foggy. “I absolutely want this.” If it went well, they could have something incredible. They could change people’s lives.

And for the first time in a while, he could picture this going right.

—

Matt got back to his apartment, still a bit drunk and very tired. It was a healthier tired than he’d felt for a while. He wasn’t sure how much of a mess the morning was going to be (pouring booze on a low stretch tended to make for _hellacious_ mornings after), but it felt like he was finally through the worst.

Right before he opened the bedroom door, he noticed the scent.

Roses.

Real roses. Fresh ones, too.

He opened the door carefully.

There was a bouquet on his bed. It had a piece of paper and a small electronic device.

He moved over and felt gingerly. The device was a small digital recorder. The card felt like a playing card, and had a sticky lipstick print.

He sniffed the recorder, but didn’t detect the scent of any hidden explosives.

Nervously, he hit play. “Hello, lover,” said Eliza’s voice. “Just wanted to let you know I made it out okay. That was impressive work you did. And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I wouldn’t want anyone _else_ killing you. I’m off to enjoy some tropical beaches and cheap plastic surgeons at the moment, but if I’m ever back in New York, I may treat you to the ultimate in intimate moments. In the meantime, sleep tight!”


End file.
